


Dying Grass Moon

by motorghost



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Bottom Jesse McCree, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Angst, Furry, Hunter Jesse McCree, Knotting, M/M, Marking, McHanzo Week 2020, Okami Hanzo Shimada, Oral Sex, Smut, Top Hanzo Shimada, Trans Jesse McCree, Wolf Spirit Hanzo, farm-typical violence, light depiction of blood, mention of other characters, referenced angela/mei, smut with plot, spooky vibes, trans!McCree, very light angst, witches and demons, zero references to pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: The hunter Jesse McCree finds a creature in the forest who needs his help. Clearly the giant white wolf isn't from around here, but it's dangerous to pry into a spirit's affairs.McHanzo Week 2020: Day 5 (The Wild/Trapped)
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 43
Kudos: 286





	Dying Grass Moon

**Author's Note:**

> A hunter-McCree and wolf-Hanzo fic! And Jesse is trans! Also I wrote this in one day!
> 
> I switch between calling wolf-spirit Hanzo “it” or “he” and this is because he’s a supernatural being with deity-like qualities: sort of half-phenomenon, half-animal. He is often in a gendered form, but he is also something that cannot be contained to a single gender, or to organic beings, or even to mortals, and so is inherently ineffable, or incapable of being defined by language. I enjoy the Miyazaki-like approach to fantastical story-telling in which not everything is explained. (Not out of laziness I assure you! more out of the desire to keep divine things divine-feeling, and to give the reader something enjoyable to ponder, which is something I enjoy as a reader myself!)
> 
> The title "Dying Grass Moon" is another name for the Hunter's Moon, or Harvest Moon, which is the full moon that occurs every year in October.
> 
> Any references to Jesse's genitalia are kept to terms like "hole" or "cock." 
> 
> This fic and my whole ass is dedicated to Severeni, whose art has inspired me for literal years!!!!
> 
> Also this fic was v. inspired by this video/song by Fleet Foxes (really gettin into my fall forest spoopy vibes) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yAxIdkF2Qo&ab_channel=SubPop

“It’s alright,” Jesse mutters. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The wolf snarls. It’s as big as Jesse’s truck and when it bares its teeth, the corners of its vicious mouth go all the way up to its golden-tipped ears. Blood flecks fly from its maw onto fur so white, Jesse can’t help but believe it’s glowing from the inside. Or else the spirit is an impeccable groomer.

“You stuck in that thicket?”

The wolf’s golden eyes flick to the crossbow in Jesse’s hand. He lowers it to the ground as it coughs up more blood.

“Gonna get that thing outta you quick as I can.”

Slowly, the hunter removes his hat, jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. He approaches with the confidence of one who means no harm, humming the low noises he uses with his horses. The wolf responds with the clear intelligence of a forest spirit and the wariness of a cornered, sick animal; there’s no telling which side will greet Jesse once he’s within touching distance.

He puts his hand under the wolf’s nose. More a polite gesture than anything; the wolf could probably smell him from several miles away and more than his human odor besides. In its agony, the spirit thrashed and tangled itself in the dense underbrush, near-choking itself with thick vines and matting its fur with mud and burrs. Jesse slips out his knife and starts cutting as quickly as possible just to give the thing more air. Then he moves to where its bloodshot eye can see him and smiles, reluctant.

“Gonna need you to open up wide, spirit.”

The wolf narrows its eyes and a deep, gurgling rumble rises from the pit of its huge chest. But it complies, opening just enough for Jesse to thrust his mechanical arm around the corner of its stretched mouth and down its throat. It gags, tongue churning as the heat rises in Jesse’s hand and draws towards it the source of the wolf’s pain.

The spirit chokes, Jesse grunts as reaches as far as he can, and then a gnarled object flies into his palm. He yanks his arm free as the wolf hacks: it’s a dense node of poison, so cursed that it singes his metal claws.

But it crushes in his fist as easily as glass. “There you go.” Jesse retreats to a more respectful distance as the wolf starts snapping itself free. “You’re alright now.”

He expects the wolf to fly as soon as it’s loose, but it licks its paws and what it can reach of its flank instead, trying to bite away the sticky burrs. But its fangs are too large, its pain still clearly present.

“Got a home remedy that’ll clean those out,” Jesse says, using his canteen to rinse his arm. “And a bottle of shine for the ache. Last spirit I shared it with seemed to like it okay.” He smirks, adding, “Though she was a sky child. And low-brow as me.”

The wolf seems to think it over. Jesse knows it isn’t mute, but most spirits would rather not deign to speak to humans—he figures they'd liken it to a human trying to communicate with a field mouse—but this one seems to think it important enough to use its deep, resonant, twice-echoed voice. “Barley or corn?”

Jesse blinks. “Corn.”

“From the village?”

“Naw. Grew it myself.”

The wolf hesitates again, then smirks in a way that makes Jesse’s stomach shift. “Make room in that truck.”

⥁

It only took a little work to get the wolf to fit alongside the hay bales in Jesse’s truck bed. He takes it slow down the abandoned mountain pass, praying for the under-carriage the whole way, but they make it to his cabin without losing a screw. He sees the wolf look around suspiciously he helps it down and over the small garden in the front of the property, golden eyes darting from the padlocked shed to the axe on the stump to the game hanging from hemp knots next to the iron pump.

“You’ve lived here long,” the wolf mutters.

“‘Bout four years now.”

“Strange that I haven’t known.”

“I got a domestic witch to put blocks on the whole place. Some spirits would rather slaughter a hunter than find out what kind it is first.”

The wolf chuckles and the sound vibrates through Jesse’s very marrow. He can tell without the wolf saying anything that it definitely woud've killed Jesse if it’d known about him before receiving his aid.

He prays that this favor is enough to warrant mercy as he helps the wolf up the porch steps and into the front kitchen. It shrinks enough to enter, though not enough to make itself comfortable; it still knocks over Jesse’s coat rack with its swishing tail and lays its enormous head on his kitchen island hard enough to make the maple creak.

“Had a bog witch whip this up for me after I helped her with some hog thieves,” Jesse says as he takes two large mason jars out of his fridge.

“You have many friends,” the wolf mutters, eyeing the photographs on the slope of Jesse’s staircase.

“I been lucky,” he replies.

He clicks on the stove and dumps the first jar into a black-iron pan. Then he plucks a few leaves from one of the herb bunches hanging over his counter and folds them into the molasses-like slop, glancing out the window now and then to make sure nothing followed them down from the mountain. The lights at the edge of his path should flicker if something passes the threshold, but he noticed they didn’t budge when the wolf came through. Probably because Jesse invited it, but he can’t be sure—the witch didn’t explain everything.

With a brush made from manticore bristles, Jesse mixes the pan's contents into the wolf’s bizarrely soft fur. It doesn’t illuminate from within, as Jesse thought, but clearly repels whatever naturally yellows a normal animal’s fur. He’s never seen anything like it; not in the desert, not in this forest.

“You ain’t from around here either, are ya?”

The wolf eyes him, wild and imperial all at once. Jesse knows how dangerous it is to pry into a spirit’s personal affairs, but he’s always found his good intentions rewarded when it comes to other-side folk. It was his natural affinity for them that first got him into the hunting business.

“Japan,” the wolf sighs. “I traveled for two hundred years before settling on this mountain.”

“What made you want to stay? If y’don’t mind my askin’,” he adds, noticing the wolf’s furrowing brow. “Just, I think there’s somethin’ special here, but I know most folk see it as just another range.”

“It _is_ special,” the wolf mutters. He doesn’t say more, so Jesse leaves it be.

He goes about cleaning the spirit’s fur until it breaks the silence not five minutes later: “you said there’d be shine.”

⥁

“And then,” Jesse cackles, red-faced, pitched forward on his patched sofa, “I put the cigar back in my mouth and said, ‘Thanks for holdin’ it for me!’”

The wolf laughs that same terrifying laugh, even more thrilling for the way its jaws stretch all the way back and the golden light on its forelegs gleams in bold, swooping patterns, like war paint. Its coat has been cleaned and smoothed and now looks even softer and more brilliant than before. “Ridiculous.”

“Ain’t life just so?” Jesse picks up the jug and pours more moonshine into the steel basin he’d fetched for the wolf. He scoops a heaping spoonful of fermented apple mixture and stirs that in as well. “Glad you like this stuff. My first attempt.”

The wolf rumbles as it laps up its drink politely, yet greedily, which is all the compliment Jesse needs. He leans back and crosses his boots on his oaken coffee table, regarding the spirit with easy pleasure. Who knew such a mysterious, lethal creature would be such good company? When was the last time his curiosity brought him a new friend and not, say, a new reason to beg the snowy peak’s monk for a miracle?

“Your hospitality is commendable,” the spirit rumbles. “For a hunter.”

Jesse blushes. “Well, thank you kindly. To be honest, I only take contracts when the village has a real problem. Bog thieves, demons. Ghosts. _Lots_ of ghosts, actually.”

“There was a slaughter here.”

Jesse narrows his eyes. “Really?”

“Two hundred or so years ago,” the spirit says, looking out through the window. Jesse can’t be sure, but he thinks the spirit has shrunk more, and even looks more humanoid now: its snout has shortened, its leg joints shifted. It seems more and more like he might sit up at any moment. “I can smell it. I doubt the humans remember.”

Jesse looks out the window, too, though he doesn’t expect to see anything but the dark and swaying tree line. “A slaughter? Not a battle?”

“Yes.” Jesse can feel the wolf looking at him, but he doesn’t turn. Hiding one's fear is important with spirits—particularly predators. “What do you do with these ghosts?”

“I track ‘em down, then hopefully get ‘em to pass on. Mostly I wind up helpin’ ‘em to remember why they died so they can find some meanin’. Some peace. Those that don’t pass on, I usually just… bring ‘em to a spot near the purple glade.”

The wolf wrinkles its nose. “That’s why it’s smelled so sour lately.”

“Sorry,” Jesse grins. “The blue glade is nicer, even if it’s smaller. You been?”

“Of course,” the wolf snorts. Now it actually does sit up, its hind legs bent on human-like knees. Jesse can just barely make out the rippling of firm muscle and—he glances away out of politeness—the wolf’s sheath, barely obscured by the soft fur of his underbelly. “I cool off in the falls during your unbearable summers.”

“I’m from the desert. Trust me, these summers ain’t nothin’. Demons down there’ll make your tires catch fire n’ then help themselves to your organs.” Jesse leans further back into the sofa, gets comfy with his tin mug. “Witch who helped me set up my borders lives around that glade.”

“I know of her.”

“Real sweetheart, that one. Her partner helped me with that apple mix. Everything she makes just… well, you can feel the love in it, right?”

 _“Mm,”_ the wolf rumbles, a little awkward; Jesse can tell it isn’t used to humans and their short, emotional existences, despite its practiced manners. “But the love isn’t only from her.”

“Hm?”

“Your home,” the wolf looks around and then leans back, props himself up on what appears to Jesse as a very human-looking arm. “It _exudes_ you. The warmth radiates. I am truly surprised I have not sniffed you out before,” the wolf mutters, sounding like he doesn’t much enjoy surprises.

“Like I said,” Jesse takes a sip, “I take a lotta precautions.”

“You must be accustomed to eluding spirits.”

“Sure.”

The wolf’s eyes narrow as it scratches under its chin with human-like fingers, though still clawed. “Perhaps in order to hunt them as well.”

Jesse narrows his own eyes. “Most of the spirits I’d run into in the southwest are tricksters. Gotta avoid them just to get around, ‘specially at night. But, yeah, I’ve taken down my share of Snake and Scorpion and Spider Brothers.”

“Dog eat dog,” the wolf smirks, “is that the saying?”

“Just about. But I don't shoot first. ” Jesse nods to the crossbow on the wall. “That girl’s big enough to be more than fair warning.”

“And why did you leave your desert hole to do favors for the weak humans who litter this mountain’s feet?”

Jesse’s frown deepens, but he takes a long, calming sip of shine before he answers. “Even weak things deserve to live. And I thought I’d earned a fresh start. That’s all I’ll say on that.”

It’s dangerous to pry into a spirit’s personal life, but even more dangerous to deny their own prying. Distrust is strong between the village and this mountain’s creatures and Jesse can tell this wolf brought even more distrust with him from whatever past he had to outrun. Asking for your own privacy to be respected by a being that sees you as low as a barn roach is a huge gamble.

But Jesse comes up lucky once again. “Secretive human,” the spirit chuckles, leaning back on both paws with its cocked legs bent, making it even harder for Jesse to keep his eyes off the wolf’s increasingly immodest form. If ‘immodest’ is even the word Jesse wants. “You are prickly for one with so many friends.”

Jesse smirks. “Guess I ain’t that warm after all then.”

“No,” the wolf lifts his head, sniffs the air, then inhales deep. “You are warm. Warm and… spiced.” Then its golden eyes fix on him like drawn pistols. “You have tasted war. You have loved someone dearly.” Jesse feels the lights in the cabin waver as the light inside of him bows towards warbling darkness. “You have suffered immense loss. Tragedy. Scars.” His eyes close as he pushes against that shadow, sighing out black smoke. “But also bliss, and true camaraderie.” His eyes open and the wolf is much closer, its still-large head craning over the coffee table, its golden eyes heavy-lidded as its snout presses to the serape laying over Jesse’s shoulders. “It’s been hundreds of years since I have smelled this kind of loyalty.”

Jesse tries to hide his jumping nerves as the wolf sniffs his serape, the short fur of its snout brushing against his own beard and neck. It smells like a clean animal, but also like sweet moonshine, fresh cedar, mountain air, and something else--something raw and tangy, reminiscent of the sourdough bread Jesse'd tried to make last month.

He tries not to think of how long those teeth had looked in the thicket. “Might be the, ah. Cigars,” he quips, sipping his shine while the wolf pushes its nose against his hair; normal wolf-spirit behavior, he tells himself. “I get them from a retired knight in town. He, uhh. He makes beer, too. Real nice… real nice lagers. Pilsners.”

The wolf rumbles and Jesse doesn’t think he’s wrong in thinking it resembles a purr. “More friends.” He sniffs lower, at Jesse’s collarbone, then right above his heart. “But none more intimate.”

Jesse chuckles; feels like he’s laughing with a sword to his throat. “Am I about to be told just how single I am by a forest god?”

“I would never be so rude,” smirks the spirit, even though he’d made a mini-black-hole inside of Jesse’s chest just a moment ago. _“Mmm,”_ the wolf rumbles, sniffing back up to Jesse’s neck, snuffling in his hair; Jesse looks across and swears the wolf’s own neck has elongated just to reach over the table. “You are growing… peppers?”

“Poblanos,” Jesse grinds out, trying not to show how flustered the wolf is making him. “They ain’t even sprouted yet. Did you, uh. Am I that worried about ‘em?”

Those massive jaws open and a long tongue slides lazily over dinner-knife-sized fangs. “If I help them grow, will you prepare me a meal?”

Jesse finds his throat over-dry when he swallows. "Feels like you’re anglin’ for a longer invitation there, partner. You wouldn’t be avoidin’ someone or somethin’, would you?”

“I am the thing to be avoided,” the wolf chuckles, rumbling in Jesse’s ear, making his stomach flip in an all-too-pleasant way. “And autumn is half over. I know you crave peppers to dry out and enjoy all winter. If I help them grow, will you cook them with the deer you have hanging in your larder?”

“I just butchered that deer,” Jesse mumbles, nudging the wolf away so he can stand.

⥁

The wolf consumes all of the venison that Jesse managed to fit into his largest pot while the hunter himself subsists on yesterday’s rainbow trout. It’s unfair, but befriending this spirit is more than good sense. He makes Jesse feel like there’s a good reason the hunter chose to remain in this mountain, that it wasn’t just some arbitrary decision he’d had to make while he was looking for a way out. And—even with the moonshine’s glow fading under hearty food—the company is still good.

After the wolf is finished, he licks himself clean on the bear rug by Jesse’s fireplace while Jesse cleans up. The autumn is definitely on its way out; trees are shedding in the night’s chill wind, orange leaves turned blue by moonlight.

Jesse leans over the sink to look up at the slice of sky just above the canopy to affirm that, yep—it’s a full moon. Great. Should’ve checked the calendar before agreeing to feed a spirit. There's an ancient name for this one, but he can't recall; he only knows that that whatever happens on a full moon will be amplified. Very good or very bad, like his luck.

He takes a pinch of salt and tosses it over his left shoulder before returning to the lowered living area. “Lookin’ mighty comfortable there,” he smirks, seeing the wolf sprawled over his serape and three of his biggest pillows. “Guessin’ your belly’s too full for you to get back to your cave tonight?”

“I don’t sleep in caves,” the spirit chuckles, stretching in such a manner as to make Jesse want to avert his eyes again.

But this time, Jesse can’t help but look; his own smile feels too good on his face. He can’t remember the last time he smiled so much in one night. “From the looks of you, you exclusively sleep on other peoples’ rugs.”

“Never.” The wolf rolls onto its back, clawed hands behind the pillow under its head, tail swishing against Jesse’s leg. “You are simply lucky.”

Now Jesse can feel the reason he’d looked away all those times before—the burn on his face extends all the way to his chest. Hoping the wolf will mistake it for the fire’s influence, he coughs and scratches his neck as he turns for the stairs. “Well, g’night then.”

“Don’t forget your prayers, hunter.”

The last thing Jesse sees before he’s all the way up the stairs is the wolf curling up, more animal once again, its snout disappearing behind the long fur of its tail.

⥁

Jesse doesn’t pray anymore. He thanks all of it—the moon, the forest, the water in his wash bowl—and then quietly mentions that it’d be nice if the wolf didn’t either maul him in his sleep or make itself so comfortable that it never leaves. Though, as he’s donning socks and adding a hot water bottle to the foot of his four-poster bed, he can’t help but imagine how nice it’d be to have some company for the winter. Someone with a dry sense of humor and a little dangerous to boot.

He washes his mouth with mint, applies a warming balm to his arm above the prosthetic, lowers the wooden window slats just enough to cast lines of blue light across his grey sheets, then crawls into bed. The feeling of that gnarled ball of curse still ripples through his metal hand. Who would curse such a beautiful creature? Would they follow him down the mountain? Would they come after Jesse, too?

The day’s labor weighs him down and lets him fall quickly to sleep.

He doesn’t usually dream. As friendly as Jesse can be, most of it is an act, and dreams know better than most that he usually prefers to be left alone. But they come smelling like apple moonshine and wearing warm golden eyes, so he lets them in.

Angela and Mei appear at their cottage door. “Mei’s getting very good at baking,” Angela sighs, look at her partner like she’s the stars in the sky. “Ever the scientist.”

The mountain monk and his pupil look at him from over their shoulders, the prayer bell massive and still before them. Beyond, slow-moving clouds are brilliantly white against a glowing blue sky. “There’s a reason you came to speak with ghosts,” the monk smiles.

“You can’t trust the dead,” his old commander mutters, sitting on that same patched sofa with the skull of a barn owl between his scarred fingers. “Not even me.”

Then the forest opens. There’s another reason he came here; he’d seen postcards as a kid of beautiful orange, gold, and red foliage, stretching on as far as the eye can see before dissolving into stately conifers and jagged peaks of white snow. Hidden ponds full of wise reptiles. Meadows full of pollinating, gossipy flowers. Soft green paths broken up only by the odd loose crystal or—far more rare—a fairy circle.

And a huge, graceful, powerful presence lingering at the edges. Jesse realizes he’s felt it before, though he didn’t have the knowledge necessary to see it. There are wolf spirits all over the mountain—three packs, loosely related, all gray and horse-sized—but he’d never felt a spirit like that before. Vaguely he recalls summers spent at the lake with the witches, the monks, even the omnics, all diving naked and joyous into biting, crystal-clear waters, and the vision of golden lights at the tree line. Jesse’d always thought they were confused fireflies, or just a trick of the over-eager sun, and yet, he feels so strangely lonely.

He knows it’s midnight when he wakes because of the ancient moon-dial on his windowsill. The brightness must’ve woken him—the lines of light are like blocks of whole magic on his skin, making even his metal arm look a spell intended.

His feet find his slippers and he shuffles towards the bathroom for a glass of water. Usually there’s a pain in his eye or in his arm when the seasons shift and he wakes up in the night, but tonight he feels remarkably peaceful. He can hear the wolf’s breathing downstairs when he crosses the landing, slow and deep and rumbling. He smirks as he hears small woofs, as if the spirit is chasing something in his own dreams.

Tired eyes in the mirror make him sigh. Age is a son-of-a-bitch, but he supposes he’s lucky to have made it this far. Change has been just kind enough for even the impending winter to seem lovely.

When he finishes his water and crawls back into bed, he sighs out even more of that black smoke. It’s as if the very feathers in his pillows and mattress are aligning themselves with his body. Embracing him.

It contributes greatly to his ease when he spots the wolf at his door. “I wake you up, partner?”

“You sleep too much,” the wolf grumbles, padding on all fours towards Jesse’s bed.

“Y’bored? I got a rabbit problem you could—”

The wolf scoffs hard, amused, and sits by Jesse’s window. “You are missing a beautiful night.”

“I’m pushin’ forty, partner. Can’t pull all-nighters like I used to.”

“Hanzo.”

Jesse lifts his head. “Huh?”

The wolf rises up on its hind legs as it looks over its shoulder, down at Jesse. “My name is Hanzo. After an ancient warrior.”

Jesse suddenly feels wide awake. It usually takes months of trust-earning to learn a spirit’s name, and he’s only earned two in his entire lifetime. “I’m Jesse. Named after a… well, another kind of warrior, I guess.”

Hanzo walks towards Jesse’s nightstand and brings himself down to his hands and knees, but keeps his humanoid features; he is smelling the dried wildflowers on Jesse’s journal, where he writes details of his hunts, his clients, and important information like recipes and crafting instructions. “Your horses are worried about you.”

Figuring Hanzo will make conversation all night if Jesse lets him, the hunter rolls over with a pronounced yawn, shuts his eyes, and hugs a pillow under his mechanical arm; he’s still not tired anymore, but he figures it'll return eventually. “Yeah, I reckon so. Probably scrapin’ their stalls wonderin’ why you ain’t left yet.”

It’s a moment before Hanzo replies. “I had a dream about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Jesse smiles, eyes still shut. “I’ve been told I can be very dreamy.”

“I remembered that I’ve seen you before. At the lake, with the witches. I could only make out your shape. I could not smell you.” Jesse hears the wolf snuffle at his sheets. A dim burn starts up in the pit of his stomach, marking the return of those nerves. “But I knew you could also not see me, so I didn’t care.”

“Should’ve joined us,” Jesse chuckles. “Could’ve tried out the old knight’s beer.”

“You would have been afraid.”

“No, I wouldn’t’ve.”

He can hear Hanzo’s smile. “No?”

“Naw.” Jesse yawns, deeper this time. “I was raised by coyotes.”

A long moment passes. Jesse can feel sleep peeking around the corner, but the nerves in his stomach keep his pulse up. He can hear Hanzo’s every motion now: his shifting weight on the floorboards, his fur brushing the bed. His steady breaths growing deeper, longer. He can sense when Hanzo starts holding his breath only to let it out slower, like he’s trying to control it.

Then those nerves in Jesse’s gut are joined by raw excitement when he feels the wolf crawl onto his blankets. The pressure on the mattress is enormous, but the bed is strong. And big enough for Hanzo to slot himself against Jesse’s naked body without Jesse having to move.

He can feel the wolf looking at him, and he knows that Hanzo knows that Jesse’s not asleep, but he pretends all the same. He feels Hanzo settle behind him with a canine huff, legs pushing up against Jesse’s legs beneath the sheets. A second peace drifts through Jesse’s body alongside his now-crackling energy until he feels like he’s high, or worse—glamoured. But animal spirits aren’t known to have that kind of power, and Jesse knows himself enough to admit the fault lies with him alone.

But he doesn’t know himself enough not to be surprised by his own arousal. Hanzo is pressed so firmly to Jesse’s back that he can feel just how solid he is. He can hear Hanzo’s rumbling sigh vibrate through his skin, making him shiver. He’s never done anything that could be considered intimate with another non-human, even when he helped out those dryads that one time. That a huge, Christ-knows-how-old, shape-shifting animal spirit is spooning him in his own bed after an impromptu night of pleasant flirting is making his groin do things his brain can’t keep up with.

He doesn’t know how long they lay like that before Hanzo starts rutting against his backside. Jesse continues to pretend to be asleep, but he can’t help the wry smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. He feels Hanzo’s arm loosely drape over his waist and that grin grows wider—a charmingly accidentally-on-purpose move from a spirit that could rip out Jesse's throat just as easily as he sighs hot breath against it.

Even if it wasn’t a charming move, Jesse’s body would’ve responded. When he gently presses back with his hips and he feels Hanzo shift again, pressing so close that Jesse feels the spirit's heartbeat resonate through its huge chest, Jesse's grin fades in favor of biting the inside of his cheek. Its body heat, which was strangely non-existent before, suddenly rises until Jesse feels like he’s being embraced by his own hot water bottle.  
  
They rock lazily against one another until Hanzo rolls his hips up against Jesse’s ass, lets out a thunderous sound of unmistakeable desire, and Jesse’s arousal expands two-fold. He feels it drape its muzzle over his shoulder; if he turned his head, he could kiss Hanzo right on his snout. But he's content to push the increasingly thin ruse of pretending to be asleep just to see how riled-up Hanzo can get. It's making him hot all over in addition to being highly flattering—the wolf is a spirit among spirits, and not just for its obvious size and power. Jesse feels like he’s playing with a fire that could singe more than his vulnerable, mortal body. But he still keeps rolling his ass back to meet the wolf’s increasingly pronounced thrusts.

That padded hand flattens on his belly, smooths upward, then rests with its claw tips pressed lightly to his throat. “Jesse,” Hanzo whispers, barely legible beyond a bestial growl.

Then Jesse feels something hard nudge against his ass and the pang of arousal shooting up from his groin is powerful enough to make him growl in return.

The pillow in his arms is yanked away and Hanzo drags his long tongue from Jesse’s trapezius to his ear. Jesse can’t help but moan, raw and ragged, forced out from behind closed lips. His entire hole is twinging with arousal, more and more as the erection at his backside grows harder, larger. There’s no special power to his human nose but even Jesse can tell that Hanzo smells different now: heady, intoxicating. The wolf's cock nudges between Jesse's cheeks and the hand by his throat lowers to his pectoral. It squeezes slowly, but firmly, massaging the thick muscle with obvious, indulgent desire.

“Jes-se." It’s as if Hanzo’s playing with the name in his fanged mouth the same way his tongue plays against Jesse’s skin. He licks and drags his teeth against the slope of Jesse’s neck as he twists the hunter’s nipple, his other arm pushing underneath Jesse to grope at his other pectoral. The hunter bucks until he can feel pre-come against his lower back, until his nipple stings and he moans again: overwhelmed from both sides. Amplified, just like the moon promised.

 _“Jesse,”_ Hanzo whispers again, only this time it sounds more like a question. Or pleading. Or a _demand._ Or all of it together, as turbulent and unknowable as the spirit himself.

Then the wolf takes one hand from Jesse’s nipple and grabs at his thigh, accidentally scratching him in its eagerness, gripping it easily in his large hand and holding it up so he can fit his cock between Jesse’s legs. He thrusts slower, now dragging his cock against Jesse's wetness in rhythmic, slick slides. The hunter pants against his pillow as he burns, eyes still scrunched shut, now past pretending and instead hoping that he can keep it all going as long as possible. Until he comes like this, those teeth at his neck and that warm cock rutting against his aching folds.

But when Hanzo growls with need at the feel of Jesse’s slippery hole catching against his length, Jesse can’t help but shoot his eyes open, push down the sheets, look down and _moan:_ the wolf’s cock is tapered and dark and proportional to his body but enormous to Jesse. It shines with Jesse’s wetness and Hanzo’s own pre-come, smearing against Jesse's thigh.

In the time it takes for Jesse to pant out, “Fuck me,” the wolf is on him. The blankets fall to the floor as Hanzo rises to lean over Jesse’s body and push his snout against Jesse’s throbbing cock, making him wince and groan and shiver all at once. “Fuck _me,”_ he grits out between clenched teeth, seizing the top of the wolf’s mane as that long tongue laps at his opening. Hanzo’s clawed hand holds open one of Jesse’s thigh while the other props himself up, the long and powerful bulk of his torso hovering over and beside Jesse.

Hanzo's hanging cock is just close enough for Jesse to crane his neck and gather the leaking head into his mouth. There’s additional coarseness to Hanzo’s growl; he leans his hips closer to give Jesse better access as he loses himself between Jesse's legs, lapping greedily. Pressing his tongue inside, shallow, and then pulling it back in a way that could only be purposeful teasing. 

Two can play that game; Jesse licks the pre-come from his lips and suckles the head of Hanzo’s cock with a groan, pressing his tongue against the slit. His spread legs twitch as Hanzo responds by softly worrying his teeth against the meatiest part of Jesse’s inner thigh. Then that tongue returns, penetrating Jesse deeper and deeper each time as Jesse tries to fit as much of that cock into his mouth as he can.

He must do a decent job, because the wolf is growling constantly now; low, gravely rumbles vibrate through Jesse almost as deliciously as that relentless tongue. Hanzo’s big hand reaches under to seize his ass, yanking him up to meet his mouth and making his legs spread even more, until the wolf is dragging its tongue across Jesse’s perineum, front and back, until Jesse is positive he can feel it from the inside out. It licks deep inside Jesse and flicks upward and Jesse throws his head back and whines; Hanzo’s openly fucking him with his long tongue now, eyes closed and muzzle flush with Jesse’s body. Stretching him, adding even more lubrication with thick, viscous saliva. 

Then Jesse takes enough of Hanzo’s cock that his lips burn with the stretch and the back of his throat flexes around him and the wolf suddenly pulls away. “Fuck,” Jesse croaks, licking up pre-come and drool alike. Hanzo’s snout is somewhat shorter as he licks at Jesse’s lips, prying them open until he meshes with Jesse’s own tongue, until the hunter has to pull his head back to catch his breath. He has to yank Hanzo’s head, too—even in his delirious state, he knows Hanzo's predator side will take a mile for every inch if he doesn’t push back. And it makes his cock ache to see the flare in Hanzo’s nostrils when Jesse yanks him, the way that heavy thing between Hanzo’s legs drips as if queued.

Jesse resists when Hanzo tries to flip him over, but only enough to make the wolf snarl and roughly shove him. One of those big hands presses Jesse's skull to the mattress and he automatically raises his hips and spreads his thighs, gasping at the rush of cool air on all the parts of him soaked with Hanzo's saliva and his own wetness. Nonsensical filth spills from his half-squashed mouth as Hanzo, dangerously silent save for his tongue-lolling pants, pulls his hips up even higher and presses his canine feet on the mattress to mount Jesse from behind.

Then that huge cock brushes against his sensitive opening, slipping without a hand to guide it. Hanzo lets out a scraping grunt when it catches and pushes immediately, slowly. The effect is like a slow-moving train; Jesse's sharp growl turns into a louder, harsher cry as that slick, warm thickness pushes into him without pause. His panting grows harder as he strains against Hanzo's grip, hikes his hips, tries anything to delay the slide, but Hanzo only presses in faster and grips him harder.

 _“Fuck.”_ Jesse drags out the word in a muffled, dripping groan. His ass is pushed up so high that he can feel the stretch in his lower back, but it’s nothing compared to the stretch inside. "Jesus, Hanzo, m'fuckin'—feel it in my stomach, _fuck—"_ His hole flexes around Hanzo and hears a whine inside the wolf’s growl, an extra squeeze to that clawed grip. Despite the tears at the corners of his eyes, Jesse can tell the wolf hasn't even fully buried himself yet.

Then soft jaws latch onto Jesse’s trapezius and that cock begins to shift inside him. Hanzo's tongue stretched Jesse well, but not enough for Jesse to keep from hissing and adapting military techniques to mitigate the pain. It's helped by pulsations of desperate, stomach-seizing injections of burning arousal every time Hanzo's cock so much as twitches. But he doesn't have time to get used to it; Hanzo's huffing breath grows louder as he starts thrusting in and out and Jesse suddenly loses even the power to wail. His body is clasped and fucked and all he can do is fight for breath and let his mind gradually gloss over; whited-out with pleasure.

Hanzo fucks into him with unchecked animal need, his heavy sac smacking against Jesse's burning cock until the hunter feels the burn all the way in his belly. The ache of the stretch dissipates under every jolt of pleasure and Hanzo's own increasingly tight bite. Dimly, Jesse registers that he's being held in place rather than marked. Hanzo would have no need to mark him; his scent will linger on Jesse for seasons to come. And there's nothing on this mountain that would step over a boundary like that.

Jesse feels Hanzo's knot press against his shuddering ass and he shakes even looser, crumbles into a searing mess of zapping nerve endings. Babbling incoherently, his shaking legs start to falter. He's unable to hold up his ass that high while withstanding this kind of force. But then Hanzo leans back, yanks his hips up until Jesse's knees leave the bed entirely, pulls Jesse on and off his thrusting cock even harder and Jesse howls from the very back of his throat.

Hanzo’s double-echo growl pierces Jesse's swimming awareness like a dark arrow. From this angle, he can reach under Jesse easily; he swipes at the slick where his cock meets Jesse's hole and reaches forward to press clawed fingertips to Jesse's wasted mouth. The hunter licks, sucks, humming at their joined flavors until Hanzo leans back again and resumes his steady, merciless pace. Jesse feels his peak boiling upwards with every wet joining of their bodies and his white-knuckle grip on the sheet makes it pop off the edges of the mattress.

“Jesusfuck- _ing—_ ” Jesse gasps, delirious, still tasting himself and Hanzo, “Fuck'm good, baby _—_ fill me up, jus'li'tha—fuck me, _fuck_ me—”

The wolf bites the same spot on Jesse’s trapezius and fucks Jesse until Jesse swears he’ll go blind, or the bed will shatter, or both, and Jesse comes with his face pressed fully into the mattress. It seems to go on forever, his hips jolting until his lungs have emptied themselves several times over, and Hanzo only growls and huffs more viciously, churning his cock as Jesse clenches and shakes around him.

But even when Jesse comes down, Hanzo is still going. The hunter doesn’t know much about animal spirits' stamina, but he can guess it far out-paces his own. He half-mumbles something to that effect, and the wolf slows, but stays mounted. Jesse doesn't open his mouth to protest and burns all over as he understands why; he knows he'll want more soon anyway. Even though the ache and the tremors, he senses a kind of itch he's never felt before. Hanzo's cock rocking in and out of him, the slick noises, the wolf's panting, the blood he knows is dotting his freshly-bitten shoulder—Jesse's courted a lot of perhaps-questionable past-times over the years and dallied with his fair share of unwise addictions, but no amount of good sense or aged experience could keep him from this.

Hanzo only pauses to pull out entirely, making Jesse whine, only to re-fill his gaping hole with his long tongue and more saliva. The spirit seems to enjoy it just as much as Jesse does; it growls belly-deep as it tongue-fucks him, and pulls away only to push its cock back inside him as quickly as possible. He only pulls out once more, and that's to pick up an exhausted Jesse and lay him belly-up on Hanzo's chest. Gripping Jesse's arm with one hand and holding open his thigh with the other, Hanzo pulls Jesse to and from his thrusting hips, fucking up into him while Jesse does nothing but let himself moan his pleasure. The silence of the surrounding forest only makes their noises all the more visceral, until Jesse feels animalistic himself; he reaches a hand weakly to where their bodies join just to taste their slick again, holds his head to one side just to let Hanzo lick into his mouth until it feels like he's sucking another cock.

By the time Hanzo is about to come, Jesse’s been manhandled to his side once again, coming closer to his second peak with every snap of Hanzo’s cock from behind. He’s gripping the mattress and panting for his life when Hanzo holds his thigh up and starts jack-rabbiting uncontrollably. “Yeah, come on, baby—give it to me, push it in, gimme your—”

Then his throat dissolves around a howl as Hanzo’s knot presses inside, sucks back out, presses in again. Jesse comes with an open throat, flexing as the wolf empties himself with long, rumbling exhales, pulsating over and over. Wetness spills down Jesse's thigh even as Hanzo stays locked inside him, pressed just as close as he'd been when he'd first entered Jesse's bed, even more issuing from his cock with every squeeze of Jesse's hole. 

The wolf licks at the bite mark on Jesse’s shoulder and the effect is so soothing, the after-glow so intense that Jesse has zero thought as to the mess of his sheets or the cock still locked inside him. He feels perfectly full and blissful as he floats, feather-like, into a deep and dreamless sleep.

⥁

The morning arrives slowly. Jesse opens his eyes to zero hangover, a pleasing soreness, and a sleeping human in front of him.

The only reason Jesse doesn’t shout with surprise is because he’s certain this man is Hanzo. He’s black-haired with gray streaks at his temples and beard, but there are golden tattoos on his arms that mirror the marks on the wolf’s forelegs. He’s dressed in what is clearly Japanese gear, which can’t be comfortable, but Jesse has never seen a man with that kind of resting bitch face look so genuinely peaceful.

And _beautiful._ Jesse stares longer than good manners allow, sensing that he must be, finally, in the wake of someone’s glamour. Or else a very powerful dream.

It makes him bold enough to reach out and stroke the man’s cheek, but when he blinks, Hanzo’s eyes are open and golden: a wolf once more.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jesse mutters.

“You’ll be what?” Hanzo’s jaw spreads absurdly wide as he yawns.

The hunter only smiles. Whatever’s going on, he’s sure he’ll eventually find out, or else be content not knowing. “You’re a lovely sight to wake up to.”

Hanzo huffs, nuzzles his snout against Jesse’s shoulder and licks his sore spot. “Not so lovely as you,” he growls, pressing closer. His hand pets up Jesse’s jaw, tugging it gently aside so he can lick more of Jesse’s neck. “I want you on my cock again.”

“Christ. Gonna kill me,” Jesse snickers. Despite the utter wildness of yesterday's events and the very real issue of how he's going to reconcile what he and Hanzo have done, he can't quite make himself care; even through his soreness, Hanzo's rumbling voice and insistent grip are making him shift his legs together. “How about breakfast first? And maybe a bath?”

“No bath.” Hanzo soft-drags his claws across Jesse’s scalp. “You smell good.”

“Least let me get a meal.” Arousal mounting faster than he can control it, Jesse mutters, “Y’can fuck me over the couch after. How ‘bout that?”

Hanzo acquiesces. He leaves without a word when Jesse begins to cook, but the hunter isn’t surprised when he shows up again long after Jesse has finished eating.  
  
But he is surprised to see a white deer skull in Hanzo's hands, presented to Jesse with the antlers facing down. Jesse recognizes it as the deer from last night; Hanzo must’ve imbued it with something, because it looks as though it’d been cleaned and dried for ages.

“S’this for?”

“Additional protection for your property,” Hanzo mutters, licking blood from his paws. “Hang it over the fire.”

Jesse entertains a whole mix of things to say, but settles on a simple Thank You. It could be touched with something that makes him more vulnerable to Hanzo, but something in his gut tells him that isn’t true. More likely there are types of demons that Jesse doesn’t know about. Maybe some that followed Hanzo from whatever place he fled. More likely this is a genuine attempt to keep Jesse safe.

The hunter has only just placed the skull on his fireplace mantle when Hanzo grabs him around the middle and pulls him down to the rug. “Not on the bear skin,” Jesse laughs.

But Hanzo only flicks open the buttons of Jesse’s shirt with devastating grace. “This time,” he rumbles, licking his jaws in a way that makes Jesse’s hips squirm, “I won’t spill a drop.”

 _Well, fuck._ Jesse buries his hands in the wolf’s mane as Hanzo noses open his shirt to lick at his chest. “I’m beginnin’ to think it weren’t a mistake, finding you in those vines. Right before winter.”

“You enjoy it,” Hanzo chuckles, making Jesse flush. “You tell me with your smell. And your eyes,” he smirks as Jesse tears his gaze away from Hanzo’s growing cock, “And your wetness,” Jesse hisses as Hanzo presses a hand to Jesse’s crotch, feeling his dampness even through the denim, “The way you tighten around me. How hard your cock feels against my tongue—”

Jesse growls and seizes Hanzo by the mane, dragging him bodily to the side so he can straddle on top. He has no illusions about the fact that Hanzo let him do it—he’s strong, but not as strong as a wolf god—but it still feels good to watch the spirit growl beneath him, golden eyes warm as the sun.

He smirks as he unbuckles his belt, metal clicking like shrine bells. “You’re gonna bag me another deer.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, please leave me a comment—I would greatly appreciate it!


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